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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955408">The Yonder Beckons</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarad/pseuds/Jarad'>Jarad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Pathbreaker [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wraeththu - Storm Constantine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Gun Kink, Other, broken glass</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 09:34:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,929</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29955408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarad/pseuds/Jarad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ponclast and Terzian have just carried out the brutal execution of Ponclast's son, Gahrazel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ponclast/Terzian (Wraeththu)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Pathbreaker [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174013</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Yonder Beckons</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Named after a song by The Devil's Blood.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Terzian was shaking—post-orgasmic, post-traumatic shivers. His whole body tingled with pleasure and adrenaline, even as his gut twisted with horror. His flesh was disgusted with itself. It couldn’t believe where it had been.</p><p>Ponclast sat in an easy chair before the hearth, boots up on an ottoman. He had a cigar in one hand but was forgetting to smoke it, and a glass of wine in the other, from which he did not sip.</p><p>“To the pure,” he murmured, as if to himself, “All things are pure.”</p><p>Terzian heard the break in his voice, and glanced at him sharply. The archon’s eyes glittered in the firelight. Ponclast, in tears? Forbidden sight. Terzian thought of the hunter who had caught a virgin goddess bathing. He’d been turned into a stag and shot down with her arrows. Terzian, too, had seen that which no mortal must see. He too would be turned into prey.</p><p>After the execution, he had not wanted to bring Ponclast back to Forever. Terzian’s home was his castle, the place where he had control. Ponclast had never defiled him here. Bad enough that the town of Galhea was now polluted, violated by the events of the evening. Ponclast had cast his long shadow over it for good. Terzian knew, with sickening dread, that his last remaining sanctuary, the house itself, was about to be desecrated as well.</p><p>“It had to be done, Lordra,” he said. He knew no other words of comfort, and even if he had, he would not have dared to speak them.</p><p>Ponclast drew shakily on his cigar, and let the smoke out in a long, shuddering breath. “My son, Terzian,” he said. “My heir.” His voice was soft, but his anguish was clearly audible.</p><p>Terzian thought about Swift. He didn’t understand the child. There was too much of Cobweb in him. Their connection was fragile, their rapport tenuous. Yet Terzian loved him, and feared for him. How would he feel, watching Ponclast do to Swift what he had done to Gahrazel? He realized, with terror, that it was a distinct possibility. Swift had been close with Gahrazel, and was potentially implicated in the latter’s treachery. Would the archon demand son for son?</p><p>Ponclast laughed—a sharp, hyena laugh, without joy. Terzian realized he’d been thinking too loudly.</p><p>“No, Terzian,” Ponclast said, “That would not be justice. Justice would be for me to tear him from your home, take pelki on him nightly for a couple of years, and, once my brutality had driven him to rebellion, only then put him out of his misery.”</p><p>Terzian’s chin jerked up, and his back stiffened. Ponclast blamed him, then. He blamed him for everything. He couldn’t help feeling that was unfair.</p><p>“It wasn’t pelki, Lordra.” The words escaped his lips before he could stop them. The minute they were spoken, he knew it had been a mistake. He clenched his jaw and bit his tongue, too late.</p><p>Ponclast sat frozen. He barely seemed to react. His stillness had merely become more still, his silence more silent. Then there was a tinkling of crystal and a sharp pain in his palm. Puzzled, he glanced down and saw that the delicate glass had shattered in his grip. Blood and wine dripped down his pale wrist and fell to the floor, soaking into the priceless Persian rug. He set his cigar carefully aside with shaking fingers. There was a shard embedded in his hand. He pulled it out. More blood gushed forth.</p><p>“Lordra,” said Terzian in alarm, “Are you alright? Do you require a healer?”</p><p>Ponclast smiled grimly. Terzian feared him, hated him, and yet, even now, he felt compelled to fuss over him.</p><p>“Stop that womanish whining,” he said. “Come here.”</p><p>Terzian came and stood above him. Ponclast, seated, still managed to look down his nose at his subordinate.</p><p>“Strip,” he commanded.</p><p>Terzian glanced around the parlor. It was adjacent to the entry hall and the grand main stair. The doorframe was double wide and had no doors. It was not a private space. Cobweb or Cal or Swift or any of the house hara could walk by at any moment. He looked, too, at the sharp crystal shards on the floor. He was loath to remove his boots before that was cleaned up.</p><p>“Do I see you hesitating,” Ponclast asked, with deadly enunciation, “To follow a direct order?”</p><p>Terzian had not hesitated earlier that night. All it had taken was a kiss on the lips and the two simple words: ‘Now, Terzian!’ He’d snapped to attention, risen to the occasion, or whatever other euphemism one might find for the ugly thing he’d done, the ugly thing he’d become. He’d plunged his ‘lim into Gahrazel even as the dying har melted to viscera beneath him. He’d rutted into warm, bloody sludge, and came like never before from it, his aren spewing out to mingle with the rest of the mess. It had looked like two colors of paint mixing in swirls. Viewed in the abstract, it was beautiful.</p><p>He had been stripping without realizing it, hypnotized by the memory. His uniform lay on the floor in an untidy pile. That was completely out of character for him. It was a sacred thing, his uniform. Usually, he folded it with proper military precision. Yet nothing about this situation felt usual. He’d stripped for Ponclast a thousand times before, but never in such a hallowed place, or on such an unholy night…</p><p>Ponclast regarded the nude har who stood before him. Terzian’s body was as beautiful as ever, his hair as golden, his eyes as blue. He had been tainted not at all by his vile actions. His looks were of such a wholesome kind. <em>A real corn-fed, all-Megalithican ouana har.</em> He seemed to vibrate with health and vitality. It was offensive, obscene.</p><p>Ponclast looked him slowly up and down, as he had done so many times before, and reflected on his ill-starred fatherly advice:</p><p>
  <em>I surmise that Terzian has been giving you trouble. This is a normal experience that many young Varrish warriors have with their commanding officers. It’s an institution, a rite of passage, almost an unofficial part of the training. But that is not to say you’re meant to simply take it. Terzian is mine, and you are my heir. He belongs to you by birthright. Understand? The next time he tries it, get on top. Show him whose son you are. It shouldn’t be difficult. He won’t fight hard. He likes it better that way. Good? Good. You may go now; I have work to do. </em>
</p><p>Gahrazel had lacked the stones, of course, and that meant, by Varr logic, that he deserved everything he got. Ponclast was the original author of that logic. It felt hollow to him now.</p><p>“Kneel,” he commanded.</p><p>Terzian obeyed as if in a trance. He had forgotten about the broken glass. It bit into his knees. He gritted his teeth over a yelp.</p><p>Ponclast raised his bloody hand and smeared it across Terzian’s face. <em>There.</em> That was more appropriate. Now he looked almost like the killer he was.</p><p>“Lick it up,” Ponclast snapped, “Since you’ve such a taste for my blood.”</p><p>Terzian’s eyes closed. His tongue flicked out and swiped at the scarlet smeared around his mouth. He seemed to relish it. Bile rose in Ponclast’s throat. Terzian always enjoyed the abuse, no matter what he told himself. In the face of his lewd, hungry masochism, no punishment Ponclast could think of seemed adequate.</p><p><em>What have I made?</em> he wondered. Once Terzian had seemed a normal har, with only the usual perversions—an adequate soldierly bloodlust, a perfectly average taste for pillage and pelki. Ponclast had twisted him deliberately, seeking to make of him a deadlier weapon. <em>Does he feel nothing at all? I should be pleased, </em>he thought bitterly. <em>I should be proud. </em></p><p>He’d thought himself to be perfectly inoculated against atrocity, immune to shrieks of pain and cries for mercy. He’d thought he was prepared to watch Gahrazel die. He’d thought, in fact, that the act would set him free. In the moment, it had seemed to be working. He’d experienced an icy kind of enlightenment, a cold purity of absolute being, as he watched Terzian violate his dying son. When he’d bitten into the still warm heart of his own child, sharing it with Terzian like forbidden fruit, he thought he’d reached the pinnacle. But it had not lasted. Now Gahrazel was gone, save for the tang of his blood that still scorched his father’s mouth. Inside Ponclast’s breast was a howling void, hungry, lonely, and uncomprehending. It seemed to suck the air from the room and the color from his world. Something inside him was screaming, asking <em>why why why</em>, although, of course, he knew.</p><p>Though his eyes barely saw, Ponclast registered a twitch of motion in his peripheral vision. It was Terzian’s ‘lim. He had become ouana.</p><p>A scarlet tidal wave of rage crashed over Ponclast. He reached down and grabbed the offending thing, giving it a vicious twist. Terzian, caught off guard, let out a yowl.</p><p>“What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” Ponclast spat. “After today, I have little use for it.” Increasing the pressure of his grip, he added, “I ought to geld you.”</p><p> Terzian’s eyes were wide with agony. His organ was trying desperately to retreat into his body, but Ponclast would not let it go.</p><p>“Please, Lordra,” he gasped, “I only did as you ordered.”</p><p>Ponclast’s face was a mask of misery and rage. The concept of justice was far from his mind. All he craved was annihilation—of Terzian, of himself, of the whole blighted cosmos.</p><p>He pulled his gun from his holster and shoved it at Terzian’s face.</p><p>“Suck it,” he snarled, and clicked the safety off.</p><p>Terzian went cross-eyed staring at the barrel, but obediently opened his mouth. The taste of metal and the smell of powder were overwhelming. He gagged, more as Ponclast shoved the pistol viciously towards the back of his throat. The archon’s hand was shaking, and his finger never left the trigger.</p><p>“Did killing my son make you feel big and strong and righteous,” Ponclast hissed, “You fucking cunt?”</p><p>Abruptly, he pulled the gun from Terzian’s lips and smacked it against his head. Terzian reeled, his vision darkening. He fell forward, catching himself on his palms. Pieces of Ponclast’s wine glass embedded themselves in his hands. Before he’d blinked the dark spots from his eyes, before he knew what was happening, Ponclast was behind him. His left hand reached through Terzian’s thighs and yanked out his reluctant ouana-lim, stretching it down toward the floor. His right hand held the gun. He let the cold muzzle rest just against Terzian’s slickening ‘lam.</p><p>It is possible for a har to be both soume and ouana at once. They call it “double-flower.” Terzian had heard of it. Among the Varrs it was considered a detestable perversion, so naturally he’d been secretly curious to try. He’d never expected that his first experience of it would be like this.</p><p>The barrel pushed roughly between petals of flesh and into his warm, aching hole. Terzian shut his eyes. The penetration was excruciating when coupled with an erection. It felt a bit like having a thick metal cable threaded in through his ‘lam and out through his pubes. He whimpered pitifully, unable to keep silent. Ponclast liked him stoic, but now it hardly mattered, did it? Dignity was hardly an option. He knew he was going to die like this.</p><p>At the thought, his innards clenched on the gun, and pale fluid leaked from the head of his ‘lim.</p><p>He might as well speak his last words while he had a chance. His teeth were chattering violently from fear, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth, but he had to try.</p><p>“Lordra,” he managed, “I was a coward. I wanted to tell you that you would regret it. I should have told you. I did not dare. I am sorry.”</p><p>He closed his eyes, braced on himself on his bleeding palms, and wondered if he’d live long enough to actually feel the pistol kick inside him.</p><p>Ponclast said nothing. He could not speak. The words stung terribly, yet in some strange measure, they healed him. They made it alright to admit the crucial truth, even if it was never spoken aloud: they had made a terrible mistake. They were both broken. There was no going back.</p><p>He clicked on the safety, pulled the gun from the twitching ‘lam, and set it on Terzian’s back. One handed, he freed his own straining phallus from his trousers, and shoved it into the gaping orifice. It gulped around him like a hungry mouth, sending a rush of horrid pleasure through his body. For the moment, he did his best to ignore those sensations. Another task that required his focus. He picked up the gun and jammed it brutally into the pucker of Terzian’s anus.</p><p>Terzian felt himself tearing, and his mouth opened in a soundless scream. The pain was searing. Worse was the second tiny click that came from behind him. The safety was off again.</p><p>Ponclast sighed harshly with sick satisfaction and rammed his hips into the har. He could feel the hard outline of the gun through Terzian’s inner wall. It made him tighter, a better fuck. Ponclast was perfectly aware that if he lost control, if he should happen to squeeze the trigger, they would both be seriously hurt or worse. He didn’t care. As he thrust again, he realized he would not last long. He did not mind that either. Either the gun or his ‘lim would go off, and end this sordid business one way or another.</p><p>To Terzian, the pain was a blessing. It freed him of himself. He closed his eyes tight and pushed back against the ‘lim and the pistol buried inside him, then thrust forward into the vicelike hand that gripped his shaft. Actually, it felt incredible. He hated to think of how it would look when his body was found, yet from a certain perspective, there were worse ways to go. It felt fitting, to die with his archon inside him. It was the ending he deserved.</p><p>“It’s been a privilege, Lordra,” he gasped, “And an honor.”</p><p>The sudden jolt within him was so powerful that at first he mistook it for the recoil, but it was only Ponclast’s violent climax. The archon yelled as he came, uncharacteristically abandoning himself to pleasure. His eyes rolled back, and his mouth hung open, but his finger on the trigger stayed steady.</p><p>He yanked his ‘lim out of Terzian’s ‘lam in time to splatter his ass with the last few drops of aren, and began to pump the gun viciously in and out.</p><p>“Cum on it,” he growled, “Cum or I’ll pull the trigger, you fucking bitch.”</p><p>His grip on Terzian’s ‘lim had tightened. It throbbed in his grasp. One, two, three strokes, and it spewed a jet of aren onto the floor, splattering onto the carpet with the blood and the broken glass. Terzian howled through the orgasm, arching his back, sharp crystal gouging his hands as he clawed at the floor. The pleasure was so violent it made his head swim, and the world seemed to tilt around him.</p><p>He stayed there, on all floors, panting as the room slowly righted itself. In a moment, he heard the click of the safety again. Tears of relief and gratitude leaked from the corners of his eyes.</p><p>“Thank you, Lordra,” he choked.</p><p>Ponclast wrenched the gun from Terzian’s body. It felt like it might yank out his lower intestine with it, but having it out was still a relief.</p><p>“I’m a har of my word,” said Ponclast laconically. “You came.”</p><p>The gun was filthy. Ponclast set it aside on the carpet, which was thoroughly ruined at this point. Then he lay down and pulled Terzian down with him, heedless of the glass. Terzian’s eyes were wide as Ponclast yanked him into the crook of his body and wrapped him in his arms. The archon had never held him before. He lay still, trembling in the embrace. Ponclast’s lips pressed against the back of his neck, and his breath stirred the delicate hairs there. Not a word was spoken. In a few minutes, Terzian decided that this was probably real, and allowed himself to close his eyes and relax.</p><p>Terzian was not the har that Ponclast wanted to be holding, but he was a warm body, and he would suffice. More importantly, he’d been there when that other body had disintegrated, and that young soul had returned unto the void. He was a witness. He’d seen. He’d heard. But he had not understood. He knew only that he had abused Gahrazel the way he wished he could abuse Ponclast. He’d forced softness and submission from the son that he could never get from the father. That was his guilt. That was the extent of his insight.</p><p>But Ponclast had watched that face, so like his own, as it contorted in fear, in pain. He had seen his younger self dying in Gahrazel, had relieved his own victimization watching the rape. And when his son began to melt in Terzian’s arms, Ponclast’s heart had leapt with awful exultation.</p><p>
  <em>He cannot hold you, Gahrazel. You slip through his clutches. He cannot have you, or me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>My son, my son—we have won.</em>
</p><p><em>We are free. </em> </p>
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